by Tim Sandlin
I crawled under the hang glider, put both hands on the control bar, and stood up. Wind filled the space under the wing and pulled me back some. It seemed easier than the guy in the book described it.
The first time I ran down the hill the front end dipped a little and the glider did a nosedive into the dirt. Almost broke my glasses.
The second time I tripped over a rock.
The third time I ran like hell, kept the nose level, elbows down, feet kicking. She took off. Floated. Glided. I couldn’t believe it. The son of a bitch worked. I flew toward the base of the hill, hit a thermal or updraft or whatever it’s called, and actually rose. Kelly Palamino, whose idea of sports is drinking beer and watching baseball on TV, flew like a bird—a damn buzzard.
I wanted my mom to see me and take my picture. I wanted Julie to see me and say, “Why, he’s not incompetent after all.”
I leaned right and the kite turned right, leaned left and went into a stall. Scared myself. I pulled down on the control bar, got something of a dive going, picked up speed, and leveled out. Stalls aren’t fun. I decided not to have another one.
Slow turn north and on to the Broken Hart. How could Colette resist an eagle with blue wings dropping from the sky? I was almost bound to surprise her.
Following the creek around the corner, I angled for the ranch house. Must have been a hundred feet off the ground when I saw the buildings.
Something was wrong. I counted fourteen people and a dog standing around the lawn between the bunkhouse and the barn. There should have been one, Colette, or maybe two, Colette and Danny’s mom. Instead, the whole neighborhood stood below me. I couldn’t even pick out which one was her.
An arm pointed at me and all the faces turned my way. Most of them shaded their eyes with one hand, which made it even harder to find Colette.
I had gone to way too much trouble to back down because of an audience. Besides, I was losing altitude. Besides, I loved Colette.
So I pulled the nose down a tad and aimed myself at the main house.
Colette stood off to the left toward the bunkhouse, next to Danny and Mr. Hart. She was holding something in her hands and staring up at me. The distance made it difficult to be certain, but she didn’t look impressed.
At forty-five or fifty feet above the ground, I leaned into a gentle left turn, almost a hover, and went into the act.
“I love you, Colette. Come fly away with me.”
John Hart ran into the house.
I had drifted past her and couldn’t see Colette’s face, so I turned back a full 360 degrees and came in again. “We can live together in glory and wonder. We can change the world.”
John Hart came out of the house, carrying a rifle.
There were no thermals in sight, no way in hell to gain altitude. John pointed the rifle at me and fired.
Instinctively, stupidly, I twisted to the left to dodge the bullet. Also, I dropped my hands. Who knows why, maybe I thought I could block the shot.
Twisting left and dropping my arms put the hang glider into a steep dive toward the second story of the bunkhouse. Even then, I could have saved myself. I was diving toward an open window. I could have sailed through the window like a Hollywood stuntman, leaving the glider to crash against the wall behind me. It would have been tremendous.
Vaguely, I wondered where the quick-release pin was. Buildings, like cliffs and anything else upright, create wind disturbances, waves of air. Just before I hit the open window, the glider jerked.
I hit the wall about two feet up and a little to the right of the second-story window.
3
Cora Ann was pissed, of course. She swept into the hospital that night while I was sipping a post-Seconal apple juice.
“You destroyed my hang glider, you asshole.”
“What?”
“You destroyed my hang glider.”
“There’s a bell in my eardrums, Cora Ann. I can’t hear you.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand on my arm. “I said you’re an asshole, creep.”
The ringing increased. “I’m sorry, it seemed important at the time.”
“Important?” she shouted into my ear. “Important? What’s important about nearly breaking your neck in the name of love? When are you going to grow up?”
“Talk as softly as you can. My headache is setting hurt records.”
“How can I speak up and talk softly at the same time?” She touched one of the bruises on my face. “You’re a mess, you know that? When are you going to grow up?”
I pulled a lever, which caused a whirring sound and lowered my head back and down. “Peter Pan skipped growing up, heard fairy voices as a child, and went straight through to senility,” I mumbled, fading off at the end.
Cora Ann reached over and pushed the lever back the other way. My head came up toward her. “I’m talking to you, Kelly. You ruined those people’s afternoon, wrecked my hang glider, and almost killed yourself. Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”
I reached for the lever, but Cora Ann grabbed my hand. “I’ll buy you a new hang glider,” I said.
“With what? Do you have any idea the hospital bill you’ve run up in the last eight hours?”
“No. Can I lie down? It’s hard to breathe in this position.”
Cora Ann kept her hand over mine. “Why did you do it, Kelly?”
“I’m in love.”
“Do you know what would have happened to me if you’d killed yourself this afternoon?”
“You’d have to buy your own peanut butter.”
Cora Ann squeezed my hand. “Asshole.”
***
Seven o’clock the next morning, a pretty nurse in white brought me the worst breakfast I’ve ever eaten. The scrambled eggs tasted like half-price day-olds. The orange juice was so pulpy my hospital straw clogged at the bend. In the early daylight, I assessed myself and the room for the first time. I was wrapped around the head and ribs. I hurt all over. The room wasn’t bad, though—no roommate, and it looked out on a nice view of the Tetons that probably ran me an extra fifty dollars a day. I watched the mountains awhile, then fell back asleep.
Lizbeth woke me up. “Kelly, how do you feel?” she asked, shaking my shoulder.
“I’m asleep.”
“Wake up, this is costing you twenty-five bucks an hour.”
“I never pay anyway. What are you doing here, Lizbeth? I thought you specialized in heads.”
“Yours looks like it needs some work.”
I started to laugh, which sent one of the cracked ribs through a nerve center.
“Sorry,” Lizbeth said as I gagged in pain. “How are you doing, Kelly?”
“Fine. Can I have some Thorazine?”
She sat down in my bedside chair and crossed her legs. “You’re already on painkillers.”
“I can get stronger pills at the junior high during recess. How about some Thorazine, Lizbeth? I’m having an anxiety attack.”
“You were asleep.”
“It was fitful sleep.”
Lizbeth studied me for a few minutes as if she was reading my psychic profile. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Yeah, call Cora Ann and tell her to bring my spare glasses. They’re in the medicine cabinet at home. No one’s ever seen me without my glasses on before.”
“No one?”
“No one.”
She let that pass. “How are you feeling?”
“I hear bells, my head is killing me, I can’t see, and if I breathe, rib splinters go through my heart. And I need Thorazine.”
“How’s the inside of your head?”
Sometimes Lizbeth uses trendy terms so I’ll think she’s one of the guys, just like me. “It’s all fucked up,” I said. “What were those people doing there on a Monday? Who was minding the ban
k?”
“Yesterday was Memorial Day, the bank was closed.”
“Memorial Day?”
“All the banks and the post office close on Memorial Day. The Harts were having a barbecue, which you disrupted.”
“They shouldn’t have shot me down.”
“Kelly.” Lizbeth gave me one of those I’m-sane-and-you’re-not-so-you-better-listen looks. “I’m a therapist. I don’t give advice.”
“But—”
“But you’re screwing up, Kelly. Not just yourself, you’re messing with the lives of perfectly nice people who never did a thing to harm you.”
“They shot me out of the sky.”
“Did you know Danny Hart brought you into town and stayed at the hospital all yesterday afternoon, until you were out of danger?”
“How do you know?”
“I was here. So was Cora Ann. People care about you, Kelly. You almost died.”
“Was Colette here?”
“No.”
“Danny was here, but Colette wasn’t?”
“That’s right.”
I looked out the window at the Tetons way off in the distance.
Lizbeth continued, “You were doing so well. You have a job. You don’t sleep with Julie’s picture anymore. You were coming out of it until you saw this girl and decided she could save you from the loneliness. Nobody can save you, Kelly. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Listen this time.”
We sat in silence for a while, Lizbeth watching me watch the mountains. Finally she asked, “What are you going to do, Kelly?”
“I guess I won’t bother her again.”
“Good.”
“The marriage is bound to fall apart. I’ll just wait around and pick up the pieces.”
“What if it doesn’t fall apart?”
“It will. Colette loves me.”
***
Cora Ann brought my glasses a couple of hours later, but when I put them on, everything still looked fuzzy. The Tetons seemed to shimmer, suspended in the air. It was an odd sensation—instable mountains. The mountains have always stayed put while everything else was spinning. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see them and went back to sleep.
***
I dreamed I was tall and wore a coarse black mustache.
***
“Hey, you.”
“Huh?”
“Wake up, Kelly, you’ve got company.”
“Who?”
“It’s me, Colette Hart.” She was standing there, right next to my hospital bed, not smiling, just looking at me.
“A wet dream right now would kill me.”
“This is no wet dream. I came to tell you I don’t hate you anymore.”
“Do you love me?”
“No.”
My vision was still fuzzy, but I could see her tan, even face. She was wearing short cut-off jeans and a T-shirt-type thing that ended above her navel. I could see a small red flower on her hip.
“You have a tattoo,” I said.
“What?”
“A tattoo. Some kind of flower.”
“It’s a rose.”
“Why would a woman with a rose tattoo settle for a loan officer?”
“Don’t start, Kelly.”
We looked at each other awhile. “Would you like to sit down?” I asked.
“I can’t stay. How are you?”
“I cracked some ribs and dented my head. It’s a thick head.”
“What was the purpose?”
“I wanted to swoop down and carry you away into the mountains.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t say anything else, so I went on, “I didn’t know it was Memorial Day.”
“You fucked up.”
“Yeah, guess so. You have nice hands. I like long fingers.”
Any other woman would have become self-conscious about her hands and moved them. Colette didn’t even glance down. “I can’t believe that I could cause such behavior in another person,” she said. “I’m not special or unique. Why did you choose me?”
“I love you.” I tried to take Colette’s hand on that one, but she would have none of it.
“You don’t even know me.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? You’ve made a fool of yourself—almost killed yourself. You must have some vague, insane reason for all this.”
I gazed out at the Tetons. “You want the whole rap? The Palamino Philosophy on the purpose of life and why I don’t commit suicide?”
“Will it take long?”
“Two minutes, tops.”
“I think I’ll sit down.”
“Okay, sit down.”
Colette sat on the chair next to my bed with her hands in her lap.
I began with some basic eye contact. “Sometimes in life we experience moments in which it doesn’t matter that we’re going to die someday. We escape time by living right now, past and future cease to exist. These moments of present awareness are all that matters, all that justifies existence.”
“I could be outside playing.”
“Usually I get this feeling of being alive now in nature or listening to music or something independent, but it is possible to find the present with another person. To share reality—that’s the greatest thing that can happen to a human.”
“Sounds like a line to me.”
I waved at the hospital room. “Would I go to this kind of trouble to throw you a line?”
“You might.”
“One more minute, okay?”
She nodded.
“Okay. You say I don’t know you. That’s true, but I can look at you, hear your voice, touch your hair—”
“You’ve never touched my hair.”
“And I know, one-hundred-percent-for-sure, no-room-for-doubt know, that we can communicate, Colette. That together we can feel, be alive, make living worth dying. It may only last a day or a week, or it might go on an entire lifetime. How long doesn’t matter. What matters is that we get so few chances to feel anything with another human—to touch and have it mean something. It’s worth any amount of waiting, any amount of embarrassment, to get it because those moments of feeling are the only thing that means shit in life.”
Colette sat very still, studying my face. “You believe that crock?”
“Yes.”
She blinked twice. “I think you’re desperate and lonely and you’ll say anything to get me.”
“Yes.”
Her right hand rubbed up and down her leg. “I’m not into saving drowning men.”
By then the eye contact was intense. “Marry me,” I said.
“No.”
“Will you see me again—after I get out of here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got to admit I never met anyone quite like you before.”
“There’s never been anyone like me. Does that mean you’ll talk to me again?”
“No. It means I might talk to you again.”
“When?”
“When?”
“When do you think you might talk to me again? How about tomorrow? I get out in the morning.”
“No, not tomorrow.”
“Thursday?”
Colette stood up. “Call me around one, Thursday afternoon. I’ll think about it.”
“All right. You’ll see. We’re going to be together, Colette. We’ll be so happy you’ll be in constant bliss.”
“Don’t shovel it too thick, Kelly.”
I tried to touch her hand, but she pulled back. “Try not to kill yourself before Thursday,” Colette said.
“You have a very nice tattoo.”
Colette left.
***
I lost my sacred virginity when I was sixteen. I was washing dishes in a small café in Lancaster for a couple named Carol and Blackie. Most of the time Carol waitressed, Blackie cooked, and I washed, but we switched around and filled in for each other on days off.
Carol was a hard little woman in her early forties. She had been in restaurants for twenty-five years and knew how to keep cooks and dishwashers in line. Blackie didn’t talk much. Mostly he shuffled around the kitchen, chewing toothpicks and scratching himself.
One afternoon in October, Blackie said he was going to the chiropractor and left me to cook. Carol got suspicious. I don’t know what set her to thinking, but she paced around the dining room awhile, muttering to herself. Then she threw on her jacket and ran out.
There weren’t any customers, so I cut myself a piece of pie and sat at the counter, eating. I read a Marvel comic called Red Sonja: She-Devil with a Sword. Red Sonja had the largest breasts I’d ever seen. She wore a bikini made of chain mail, and on the comic’s cover she stood knee-deep in a pile of dead natives, challenging men everywhere to slay her if they could.
I pretended Red Sonja and I were locked in mortal combat. In the struggle, her armored bikini top came off and I saw my life’s dream—exposed woman’s breasts. Since I had never seen real breasts, I didn’t imagine nipples like on a man, but huge, swinging water balloons.
Carol stormed through the front door. “That goddamn cocksucking bastard. I’ll fix that wimp. The prick is going to pay.” She flipped the sign to CLOSED and locked the door.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Blackie’s in the sack with that little whore, Virginia Mason.” Carol pulled down both blinds, first the one to the right of the door, then the one to the left.
“Are you sure?” Virginia was a couple of years above me in high school. I kind of liked her. I couldn’t picture her in bed with lumpy Blackie.
“Of course I’m sure. I saw them through the window. He’s humping like a dog on a stump.” With one sweeping arm movement, Carol cleared six place settings off a table. “Take your clothes off and get up there.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Take your clothes off.”
I put down the comic book and looked at the cleared table. “There?”